


hotel.

by piangei



Series: the thelma series [1]
Category: Evillious Chronicles, Vocaloid
Genre: Alternate Universe - Horror, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, F/F, F/M, Hotels, Psychological Horror
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2020-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21584485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/piangei/pseuds/piangei
Summary: you can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave.Escaping her unhappy marriage, Banica Conchita takes a vacation.
Relationships: Banica Conchita/Carlos Marlon
Series: the thelma series [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1605232
Kudos: 14





	1. check-in .

She was the everyman when she walked through the glass doors with both hands occupied.

Freezis is popular, but Banica Conchita briskly reads through her copy of an old game-book from her childhood before she proceeded to clamp it down at her armpit and decided that she would think of how to escape a fictional disaster much later in the comforts of her room. She caught a whiff of its typical old-book smell as the aftermath of having snapped it shut earlier, with its yellowing pages ageing ever so steadily without any of the decrepit details characteristic of a Freezis book. At this point, reading a Freezis book of any kind would make one seem _cultured,_ but Banica was obviously not having any of that.

France has the best hotels. It could be because of the interior and exterior designs, as well as their mouthwateringly delicious desserts, but those could also be said for luxury hotels around the world. Switzerland has amazing service. Japan has an amusing variety. She’s been to awful hotels too with service much worse than how she could serve herself at home, and she briefly recalled an instance in where, on a trip to Greece, she had to climb up three flights of steps with her fully-packed carry-on to her room, only to find that it smelled absolutely musty.

 _A roof over one’s head is better than none,_ she reckoned.

But hotels are meant for _good_ service, and that’s what Banica regularly pays for. Had she wanted no service, she would very well stay at home, but home sucked the life and light out of her to the point where she could swear that the patterns on her wallpaper were moving. Carlos said that she was reading too much to pass the time — she needs more fresh air in their gardens or a brisk endurance workout at the local park just near their estates at their home.

 _His_ home, not their home. His home has water surrounding the land; the British Isles. Isles. Banica had half a mind to issue a temporary separation if only she could be allowed to go back to Spain, but France is as far as she can go. Anywhere else, and the family would’ve balked at the prospects of her catching something contagious.

So here she was in a French hotel, with its immaculately patterned floors accommodating the sharp heels of her red Romy 85 Suede Jimmy Choos. She’s been living off myths and hearsays that she’s close to becoming one, thus the summer dress that she has on that moment was worn solely out of spite and retaliation as she decided that this will be about _her_ instead of them. She will gorge on all the food that she wants and she will swear off social media—

—maybe not, because the interior of this hotel really is beautiful. A few pictures wouldn’t hurt.

The Rolle Paris raised little and much room for disappointment at the same time, but she can’t very well compare it with the Hôtel Ritz at 15 Place Vendôme from the inside out. She and Carlos stayed at the Ritz often (and she very well loves it there to this day), but she would not give him or his family the satisfaction of them knowing exactly what she does for her own self-excursion from the paid-off, gossiping, loyal staff, hence her plans to stay at the Rolle. At any rate, the Rolle is cheaper compared to the Ritz, but there’s always a catch; she might have to do without the good service that she likes to pay for. 

She didn’t mean to be so pessimistic, but married life has done no wonders for her lately.

Banica looked and felt her best. It’s been ages since she’s anticipated feeling her very own characteristic glow; for months, she’d been waiting for someone to tell her how vibrant she’d become, but nothing. But nothing, because that’s how it is, and she would grab that so-called ‘glow’ and emulate it much, much better than the rest of the lot who seemed to have no effort gaining it, along with the compliments from family and friends that were to follow.

The rolling sounds of her carry-on’s wheels glided smoothly to a halt as soon as she approached the reception counter — it’s a stately, wide thing made of marble with the clients’ side cool to the touch. Her fingertips were chilly and she wanted nothing more than to check into her room for a good sleep after her flight, but she gives the neatly-dressed guest service officer a mild smile in response to the latter’s hospitality-trained one.

 _“Bonsoir, madame,”_ she said, her accent lilting as she remained on French; Banica would’ve reckoned that she’s just graduated. “How may I help you today?”

 _“Bonsoir,”_ Banica replied — best to make things easier on the girl by speaking the same tongue. “I called earlier as soon as I touched down; I’ve booked a one-week stay on Expedia, and here is the printed confirmation for your reference…..”

Almost eagerly, the young guest service officer took the proffered folded piece of paper from Banica’s hand, as if she was thankful that she wouldn’t have to do much work. The itinerary was paid by credit card, along with various add-ons that had already been requested, and upon closer inspection, her details have already been registered by the manager in charge right after that confirmation call post-immigration checkpoint at the airport.

“Your room, _Madame,”_ the girl said, as she wasted no time in almost sliding the card key a little too fast at Banica’s general direction on the smooth, marble countertop. “Fourteenth floor, 1216, suite. Would you like for room service to deliver your dinner up?”

“Please,” Banica nodded, the weariness finally having set in to her bones. “I haven’t had anything to eat since the plane.”

“Our in-house menu will be delivered up to your room shortly,” the girl beamed. “Have a pleasant stay, Madame. Your room’s WiFi password is on the card key.”

“Thank you,” Banica replied, and that was that.

It wasn’t as if Banica was awfully terse because she didn’t like conversation, but she never took well to flights no matter how short they may seem to be. She had always been a genial, conversational creature, but the minute you put her on a flight, she’d feel as if she’d been subjected to the booming sounds of an MRI. An hour fifteen may be minimal, but British Airways didn’t do any wonders for her as she wormed her way into economy class without the family knowing. It was a price under the radar even with the all-ins; the priority seating, the in-flight meals, the six packs of airline peanuts in the pocket of her dress, fighting for space with her already oversized phone…..

When she was younger, flights were easy; when she got engaged, flights were brief, blinking moments. A ten-hour flight would be passed easily in a nap or two, but upon getting married, things changed. She didn’t know what went wrong and where. It felt strange, _bare_ even, to walk into the lift and to scan her card key at the reader before pressing the button to the fourteenth floor herself — _herself!_ Finally, she could feel how metallic a lift button feels under her fingertips after God knows how many years ago, and as the lift steadily but swiftly ascends to her floor, she gave herself a good look in the mirror.

Three very identical, very tired looking faces barely held up with makeup stared back at her.

 _That’s married life,_ Banica thought, absently rubbing her pointer finger onto the jutted Braille dots at the lift button. If it’s not the husband, then it’s the family. If it’s not the family, then it’s the husband. If it’s none, it’s ridiculous. It’s usually one or both.

It’s March and she needed to keep warm, but Paris this year experienced a quick thaw, no thanks to global warming. Last year, there was the heat-wave that nearly crippled the capital; it went as high as 45.9 Celsius, she remembered. The after-effects carried onto this year, it seemed, and she quietly wondered if it would be alright for her to be here in another long list of considerable self-imposed bans.

The mirrored lift doors slid open after the iconic _ding!_ sounded, and she came face to face with three other lifts in a row, side-by-side like siblings as she pushed herself to make her way from the lift corridor to the main hallway of the fourteenth floor. Numbered directories from rooms 1150 to 1250 pointed in various directions, and Banica almost felt the rush of giddiness over having to locate her room all by herself again in a long, long while.

It’s just like before when she was still single.

Banica had no time to appreciate the architecture, or the flower arrangements in expensive vases with their bulbous heads flourishing about with life, artificial or no. She reached her room and pressed the card key to the scanner, swung the door open after confirmation and slid the card right into the electrical slot.

And oh, what a relief.

Room service followed half an hour later after her quick shower, where she browsed through the menu and thought that she would have the Korean special. It’s healthy, compared to the mashes and gravies that she ate in England, which tended to make her feel stuffy and nauseous all at the same time. There was too much grease and jam that was too thick, and she had already sworn off all forms of alcohol since November last year. After her food was delivered, she tipped the waiter and turned on the television before taking a sip of chilled water, and lo and behold, the news was on.

There was no mention of her at all, and she mixed up her rice, vegetables, kimchi and eggs in her steel bowl, all too prepared to eat. There was no pressure in taking a picture of a simple dish that was certain to fill her up, and after one spoonful of the stuff, she heaved a very satisfied sigh.

But she still needed to text Carlos.

Amidst the background noise of the newscaster talking about the global economy, Banica swiped right at her phone and noted the time; 7:14 PM. It’s a good time for dinner, and a good time for Carlos to stop being such a hard-headed egg with enough balls to check his phone. She’s doing him a courtesy, and he should be grateful.

Carlos  
offline   
Today  
just checked in, hope ur ok19:14


	2. chapter 2

Banica has no idea how long she’s slept, but when she woke up that morning, she’s never felt better.

The streams of morning sunlight from the windows were what she noticed first; warm, beautifully bright and numbing. The small, gurgled noise that bubbled up from down her throat resonated throughout her head and rang slightly in her ears, and involuntarily, she sniffled at the fragrant scents of the sheets. There’s no one sharing her bed and there’s that deliciously heavy feeling that weighed down onto her arms and legs as it kicked in that for once in a long, long time, no one’s there to wake her up.

She let out a soft laugh and began to roll over in order to lie on her back, but thought better of it. The _sivasana_ was not good for her for the time being. Sleeping on her side for as much as she can is the best she can do for the duration.

Slowly, Banica felt it settling on her gracefully, that characteristic glow that people kept talking about. And it’s so simple to earn that feeling that it was beginning to be a bit silly; all she needed was the whole bed to herself, a bit of sunshine from the windows, and nobody to knock on her door and wake both her and Carlos up simply because _it is time to rise from bed, as your breakfast is ready._ She has all four pillows and a bolster to herself, and she spread her arms and legs around the bed as she rolled from one side to the other without the slightest fear of falling off, simply because she had this much space.

Her index finger pressed onto the side button of her phone, and the numbers _08:12 AM_ flashed before her in its sleek, for-once unimposing numbers, elegantly placed right on top of her lockscreen display. And that was good. That was so, so good—

—but the lack of notifications, as much as she hated them flooding her phone, put her off her little ride for a brief moment.

 _Not even on read,_ Banica thought sourly, the minute frustrations settling in as she looked at her chat thread with Carlos and scrutinized her latest message. He wasn’t looking at his phone, or rather, he purposely didn’t want to read her message and chose to look and respond to everyone else’s instead.

She was stupid enough to care.

But it’s not about _him_ now, it’s about _her._ It’s about her and how wonderful she’s going to feel on this one-week holiday, so although it’s back to hell come the week’s end, at least she could try and gather whatever’s left of herself in a beautiful, sprawling French hotel. There’s really so much and so little to do all at the same time to the point where she thinks that one week isn’t nearly enough for her to get wonderfully drunk on her newfound freedom and pleasure.

Bare feet made their way up high and proud the air, kicking about as Banica scrambled to get out of bed with a giddy kind of enthusiasm, anticipating for the first time in ages about what’s for breakfast. Her emerald necklace and trusty breakfast slips for the morning buffet lay faithfully underneath her wallet on the bedside table, and the newfound awakening of her old unparalleled appetite springs to life with a bright, bittersweet kind of appreciation.

It’s taken her so long to be herself again that she’s almost regretting her lost time.

“I love Paris,” Banica murmured to herself, and a little louder: _“I love Paris!”_

Oh, she loves Paris. She loves the freedom that this city gives her, and suddenly, very mundane things seemed to be so new and fascinating all at the same time — the doors in her suite are a lovely white, heavy and lined with gold to reflect a semblance of grandeur. The floor was a mixture of marble and wood, often carpeted and kind to her feet that had been travel-beaten the day before. Stepping into the bathroom was simply perfect; every single necessity was laid out on a small white tray beside the marble sink, and the warm lighting served as an epitome of ambiance setting, along with the shower, the bath and numerous folded, soft towels ready for use.

So Banica decided that she would take the longest bath she’s ever had.

A brief necessary wash-down in the shower later, she set herself to work and took a bottle of angelica bath oil, but as soon as she regulated the water in the bath, her hand stopped short of pouring the whole thing down. _It’s not recommended that you do that,_ Banica recalled the sagely advice, and forlornly, she looked at the several other bottles sitting innocuously on the aromatherapy tray by the sink, her eyes darting around to look for at least some oil that may be good for her.

 _May,_ is the key word.

 _Water it is, then,_ Banica reckoned almost dismally, as she dipped a foot into the bath and soaked right in. The things she does for love, really, but she finds that she really doesn’t mind going all bare if it wasn’t healthy for her. If she can still enjoy good food without the additives, then why not? If she can still enjoy a good bath without ten mixtures of bath oils, then that’s good too. Nail-polish was a hassle to remove anyways, and only God knows how sanitation in manicures and pedicures end up breaking 50/50 in chances.

But unless hotels aren’t as clean as they tout themselves to be, then she ought to put some hidden cameras like that paranoid, spotlight-stealing, public-favor-giving hotel reviewer on the news, and march right back home to England for at least _six showers._

 _Scratch that,_ she thought; she would _not_ go back home until the week is over. She _fought_ for this vacation tooth and nail, and she’s _earned_ it. She can enjoy herself despite being a complete teetotaler, and if she can enjoy drinking pints of orange juice instead of cocktails at the bar, then she _will._

Oh, _now_ she’s starting to sound as if she has a vengeance against anything fun.

Then there’s the matter of breakfast; Banica wondered if it would really be worth it if she were to partake in the hotel’s continental buffet breakfast, or to go out and have a probably better deal at a café outside. And speaking of outside, there’s also the question of whether it would be better to have a bicycle rented, or for her to walk on foot.

In hindsight, she really didn’t think this through before arriving. This isn’t her first time in Paris, so it surprised her greatly that she’s actually thinking heavily about how on earth she should start her day perfectly. Then again, she was always willing to give the continental breakfasts of every hotel she’s booked the benefit of the doubt.

Most, if not all, tasted extremely generic though.

She sat up in the bathtub, the water splashing about as she decided that she’d take up that bicycle rental after all. She’ll go to the usual café for breakfast — the Rolle is just a few minutes away from Café Méricourt — and cycle around the city to visit old and new places. The amalgamation of sensations between her warm skin and the cooler air dazed her to padded bits of comfort, and as she toweled herself dry, she looked at herself in the mirror and yawned.

Maybe she’d get the shakshuka.

_SHAKSHUKA : oeufs au four avec tomates, poivrons, oignons, harissa et épices…..- 11€ petite / small et 16€ grand / large._

The description on the Méricourt’s webpage was simple, yet it was more than enough to tantalize Banica’s senses as she briefly licked her lower lip in imagined anticipation. There was a different guest service officer at the front desk, and she looked every bit livelier than the one the day before with sun-kissed skin, an abundance of freckles across her face and a bright smile that she didn’t hesitate to throw Banica’s way.

 _“Madame,”_ the girl chirped in rapid French, and instantly, Banica lowered her phone to the counter to pay attention. “A one week, seven-hour subscription with the Hotel Rolle will be €10, and it will be inclusive in your bill. Is that okay?”

 _“Seven hours?”_ Banica blinked in amazement. “No additional charges after every half hour?”

“No, _Madame,”_ the girl confirmed, still very much chipper. “We at the Rolle aim to be affordable. Should you wish to use it for more than seven, then a _fine_ would have to be imposed, regretfully.”

Granted, who would even cycle for seven hours straight? “Include it in my bill, then,” Banica smiled; the day’s already getting off to a very good start. “Any events for today?”

“A week-long as well in one of our function halls,” the girl nodded, as she returned her gaze to one of the desktop computers to key in Banica’s extra add-on. _Tack, tack, tack, tack,_ goes the raised keys on the keyboard as her long fingers darted about. “There will be a jewelry exhibition by Lusha at the Atrium, and the prime highlight will be the homage 30-carat yellow diamond that was unearthed just recently.”

The very mention of a 30-carat diamond being exhibited in an otherwise inconspicuous — or different, since Banica had been cooped up in the residence in England for so long — location nearly stopped her heart right and proper. “Will there be an auction?” Banica asked incredulously.

“That, I’m not too sure, _Madame,_ I’m sorry,” the receptionist said before sliding back Banica’s card key onto the marble countertop. “Your room card has already been scanned for the bicycle use; to unlock any one of the bicycles parked outside our premises, please tap the card onto the reader. Thank you!”

France is a country filled with _‘non’_ s, according to an article that Banica’s read online just a few months ago, and that behind every _non,_ there would be a definite _oui_ if one knows where to look. Yet, as Banica walked towards the sprawling main doors of the hotel, she wondered if it was really true or yet another stereotypical figment of some foreign columnist’s for a good story, given how impeccable the service that she received earlier was. Her open-toed sandals enabled her to breathe in freedom through her feet, and as soon as she exited the premises, she was faced instantly with the bright Parisian sunlight.

It’s warm and beautiful and every shade of free all at once.

There’s a bit — if not a lot — of difference between London and Paris; the freedom on the streets despite having a bit of traffic, the attitudes swinging between studious and laissez-faire, and there’s the very obvious energy of breathing life into Banica’s person that makes her embrace the city of love more. There’s good coffee and good food, and there’s equally good wine that she sadly can’t partake for now, but probably will the next time she visits. By the next time she visits, however, she doesn’t know when that will be as she reckoned that the whole family will be making their holidays very calculated in accordance with their public image.

Not like Carlos will have anything to say about the matter, as usual. He _never_ says anything. He can’t even give his wife a simple ‘ok,’ so she really doesn’t expect anything more from him than he already is.

Banica got her bicycle, which meant that she had already covered her morning exercise regime in a different way. Banica got her Parisian streets and scenery, since she was already in Paris, and Banica was about to pedal her way to a good, healthy breakfast that would surely trump any hotel’s, even if it was the one that she stayed at before with Carlos and his family. It’s the freedom of being outside whenever she wants and to do whatever she wants that sent exhilarating thrills down her spine, tingling every bit of her nerves as her hands reflexively turned corners due to giddiness.

As she pedaled down to Rue de la Folie Méricourt, she noted how much a far cry it was from its very close neighbor; the Rue Oberkampf. Open-air flower shops and intricate walkways adorned the area, all ready for what the morning would offer, and she briefly entertained the notion of just abandoning everything to move here. Moving here would be so beautiful, she thought; it’d be a new life, and things are very well-paced according to how one would feel if they had enough standing power to enjoy instead of juggling a work-life based lifestyle. There are galleries and textile shops and a few cars on the road that don’t constitute as even being remotely annoying, but Banica’s stomach proved hungrier than she thought it’d be even after a large dinner from the previous night.

The Café Méricourt sat right beside a pharmacy; something that Banica noted. She parked her bicycle, walked through the green-bordered glass doors and let the familiarity wash over her like a right good bit of self-orientation in a place she ought to be a long time ago. The wafting, mingling scents of coffee and food blended beautifully in the air, and that was more than enough for her to make a beeline to the nearest seat she sees before being greeted courteously and handed a menu.

A pair of twin sisters sat at the table right across her, where the one with shoulder-length hair made a face and gave her even shorter-haired sister a piece of marinated beetroot from what Banica can only make out as the café’s English Breakfast. The latter complained tersely in Russian.

Banica took in every small moment for herself; despite having ordered her long-awaited shakshuka, her hands still gripped onto the menu instead of relinquishing it back to the waiter. Her eyes darted from _granola de saison_ to green eggs and feta, and when her food and coffee came, she ate. She ate and ate and ordered the eggs right after simply because she could; she’s living Roman Holiday and she’s making the most out of it.

But halfway through the eggs, she found that she was getting full.

She quizzically looked at her plate — it was basically a green version of the shakshuka, and at that point onwards, she didn’t know exactly how many eggs were safe for her to eat. She couldn’t waste, and it would be a cardinal sin to ask for it to be packed for takeaway, so she did what she couldn’t, and didn’t do since her first year of marriage.

She ate some more, but with a change — she didn’t suck in her stomach to prepare.

And already, Banica’s first morning in Paris started off on a very full note.

For one, her double-main-course brunch invalidated her every attempt on weight control; no amount of pedaling on a rented bicycle to the Louvre would burn remotely enough calories for her to stay at the optimum weight for her present state of being. Fourteen minutes is not enough; the cycle back to the café too wouldn’t suffice one bit in burning everything she’s eaten, but on the bright side, it aids digestion either way.

It’s not her first time at the Louvre; the last time she visited was when she was a young girl, having been shown specific artifacts and art pieces as if the tour was especially tailored for her and her family. To her, it was a good idea to make a palace into a museum, and when she heard about the pyramid controversy that was right in front of it, she honestly couldn’t even care less about whether it was a pyramid or a cube, or exactly how many glass panels were there. When Banica pedaled, it suddenly struck her that this was her first time going all by herself, and that there would probably be a long line at the pyramid entrance due to visitors not having bought tickets beforehand.

She herself was the same, and she certainly had no intention to stand along with everyone else for hours on end in the baking hot sun.

But she would have to come back here the next day after buying a timed ticket; she promised her uncle Cherubim that she would bring back a few pictures of the Louvre and its artifacts, if the crowd were to be forgiving instead of blocking a few faces in paintings. The da Vinci exhibit would be something to behold, and as soon as she reached the pyramid in question while balking at the long line of international and local tourists angling to get inside, she whipped out her phone and took a picture of the line in question before sending a quick message to her uncle.

UNCLE CHERUBIM  
online  
Today  
too many people in louvre, may get tickets for tomorrow!12:01   


Barely even a second later, her uncle replied.

UNCLE CHERUBIM  
online  
Today  
too many people in louvre, may get tickets for tomorrow!12:01   
you’re there in Paris already?? how is it?? it’s nice right??12:01  
it’s really great but quite hot, think it’ll be good for me :D come here and join me uncle cherubim!12:01   
don’t want any more hot weather >:( in Dubai rn and v hot12:02  
who're u with?12:02   
crim, bc he wanted to watch the dubai world cup12:03  
if u win split me ur horse racing winnings and i’ll snap pics of the whole da vinci gallery >:)12:03   
k >;D deal12:04  


In hindsight, that would be an incredibly arduous thing for her to do.

Her Uncle Cherubim was a controversial figure, both in the media and in the many years she’s known him. To her, he was more genuine than his younger brother, Sateriasis, but there could still be no ignoring the numerous sex scandals that permeated and rotated around him as if he wound himself in an inevitable lariat. The amount of places and the amount of time he’s spent travelling could easily rival, if not dominate, her own record, since her travelling days were effectively over as soon as she got married.

But it wasn’t as if _she_ could convince him to let go of his philandering ways, favorite (if not _only!)_ niece or no, and it was more serious than just feeling up random women in gatherings and functions. There are lawsuits; existing and incoming.

Uncle Cherubim spends most of his days in the Middle East lately instead of staying home in Austria, citing that nearly everything was a bit too stifling and sensational that he needed to get some sun and quiet in a place where it’s more conservative. Many problems would really be solved if he were to shape up and stop pining over her aunt to the point where he’s dug himself an even deeper hole filled with scandals and court cases, but life isn’t as simple as she’d like to tell him how. After all, she has her own problems, and she’s doing the exact same thing that he’s doing.

He’s running away, and so was she.

At least her uncle _talks_ to her, unlike her stupid husband who doesn’t even have the spine to do anything he told her that he’d wanted to do. As Banica proceeded to buy her tickets on her phone to the da Vinci exhibit as promised for both herself and her uncle’s sake, she thinks that maybe, just maybe, she can find a little bit of meaning in her personal wanderlust, and whether it was the right thing to do or not.

but how are you and carlos? are you still talking?12:10  


A pause, and then her fingers darted to reply.

no12:11   


What do you call three people running away? A _T-junction._

 _That’s a horrible joke,_ Banica thought to herself, as she read bits of her choose-your-own-adventure book that’s nearly coming off the bound seams. She’s bought more books from hide-away bookstores in one of the nearby streets, and right at the lobby of the Hotel Rolle, she tapped her sandaled foot on the marble floor in thought as to whether or not it would be safer to hide under the bed or in the closet. They only gave her two options.

 _Flip to PAGE 85 if you HIDE IN THE CLOSET,_ it read.

 _“Tsk,”_ Banica said, mildly irritated.

Either way, hiding under the bed or in the closet would definitely bring about much unwanted surprises, such as a pair of eyes peeking out at you from an open gap, solidifying its gaze as it quietly expresses joy in finding you. Either way, Banica would lose _again_ just like how she’s lost by being eaten alive, drowning and being chased by a dozen starving dogs in a haunted house, all in the span of a mere fifteen minutes. She put away the book and sighed, taking a few deep breaths as she looked over at the armchair beside her.

At the side of the armchair that she sat on was a lone pamphlet about the Lusha exhibit, and a quick glance at it gave her all the information she needed to know. The main attraction would be the yellow diamond, and there would be none other than the founder of Lusha herself, Mewtant Lusha showing up to advertise it. _15 th Mars 2020, 8:00PM_ — that would be tomorrow, and Banica silently mulled to herself as to whether to spend some time looking at a freshly-cut piece of stone when she’s already seen too much of them—

“—would you like to have the pamphlet, Miss?” a clear, inquiring voice came from right above her.

“Ah—?”

Banica almost had to crane her neck looking up at the woman who regarded her, and immediately, she thought she must’ve looked like a right fool.

The woman in question was tall; Banica quietly surmised to herself that they would be around the same height if she were to stand up, and judging from the way she dressed, she looked as if she wasn’t here for a holiday like Banica was. A tear-drop aqua pendant hung from a small silver chain around her neck, reflecting the same color as her eyes, and her long, straight pink hair cascaded down smoothly to match the rather chic-business-like fashion she wore. To top it all off, there was that winning smile that would sell any product to unwitting customers on her face, but Banica’s seen too many of those kinds of smiles in her rather short life already.

“Oh,” Banica said eloquently enough. “Oh, no thank you.”

The woman took the pamphlet and sat down at the armchair next to hers, primly smoothing her skirt as she crossed her pantyhose-clad legs before reclining at the backrest. “That’s alright; we have more to go around. Admission is free, by the way. You don’t have to pay any entrance fees.”

“I presume that you’re going to the Atrium tomorrow?” Banica hazarded a guess. “Is it simply an exhibition, or can people purchase new releases at the same time?”

“I work as the event planner,” the lady smiled, “and yes, clients and patrons can purchase the new arrivals from Lusha’s newest lineup. But I see that you’re an enthusiast for jewels yourself; for instance, that necklace you’re wearing….”

Banica’s fingers instinctively reached for her own emerald pendant — it was an heirloom gem from her mother’s family, a characteristic of her matrilineal line of the Glassred family. She wore it ever since she was an infant even to the day of her marriage, and it did cause quite a positive sensation as the very gem itself boasted a great heritage of its own.

“A family heirloom,” Banica smiled; the woman’s got a good eye for things. “I would’ve thought you’d look at my wedding ring first.”

“You’re _married?”_ the woman gasped. “Oh, what a shame….but it’s no wonder you look like you’re in a rather delicate position….”

Banica proudly raised her left hand, displaying her adorned ring finger. “A different jeweler, I’m afraid.”

“Lusha’s only made their name from the marriage of the Moonlits,” the woman hummed. “When it was revealed that the Lushas made the personalized Zvezda _kokoshnik_ for Tsarina Eva, the world nearly went mad.”

“I recall,” Banica nodded, recalling the occasion as clear as day. “All decked with diamonds too, yes?”

“Personally, I’ve grown _sick_ of looking at diamonds,” the lady groaned, crossing her arms as she rolled her eyes. “It’s always diamond this, diamond that. _Diamonds are a girl’s best friend,_ but the best-selling jewelry is—“

“—gold,” Banica finished, grinning.

The woman coyly smiled in return. “You can never go wrong with gold. But don’t tell Madam Lusha about what I just said; the entire gold opinion is simply because I used to be a business associate of someone who liked it very much.”

“I doubt Mewtant Lusha would know me, so it’s a pointless plea,” Banica shrugged before extending her hand for the other woman to shake. “Call me Banica. I’ll be here for a week tops.”

There was a twinkle in the woman’s blue eyes as she returned the handshake, firm yet gentle at the same time. Her fingers, with its nails painted a nice hue of red, were slender and pleasant to the touch, and it was as if Banica’s reunited with a very old friend.

“Thelma,” the woman introduced herself. “Want to get some dinner together later?”


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Crossover with Phantom Thief F.

The word _‘dinner’_ echoed in Banica’s head for _hours._

It thrummed in her head like a dangerous monster, signaling second by second that it’s there, waiting for her to seize the opportunity to pick out just whatever she liked in a hotel dinner. It reached out for her with its numerous hands, its fingers warbling and darting around while pointing at a display of choices against a single sanitized white plate and a nearly gaping maw.

Banica accepted Thelma’s invitation, seeing as there was no reason to reject it, but it’s been _ages._ It’s been ages since she dined with an acquaintance or with a friend — the last time she’s ever had a candid meal with another was when she ate with one of her friends from university, Platonic Calgaround at a nearby café. It was a _break-up-eat-up_ in Platonic’s words; every time Platonic had a break-up with a recent boyfriend, she would gorge herself silly to eat away the heartache.

It would also follow with Platonic encouraging Banica to order anything she wanted, albeit on Banica’s tab. They’d eat the night away and binge on dramas and soaps, but even with vegetarian food by bulk, Banica doesn’t know whether it’ll be any good for her, or whether it’ll turn her into a vegetable herself.

But that was before — contacting Platonic right about now would be the worst decision Banica will ever make at this juncture, because Platonic would only enable her to return back to her old habits. Banica’s effectively stopped gorging herself after her marriage — correction, after she’s expected to keep an image for the media — and so far, so good, but now, the prospect of eating with someone else simply mortified her.

And like a fool, she accepted an impromptu dinner appointment.

She already broke her non-caffeine run this morning, and that would be the only time she’d ever do that. It’d be water for her next, or a pot of decaffeinated tea. No energy drinks, no sodas; if she can, she’d drink Evian, but not Pierre. Filtered tap water. She’d already known this and drilled it into her everyday regime, so _why did she let loose with drinking coffee at breakfast this morning without even realizing it until just now?_

Banica sighed and looked at herself in the mirror of her suite. She could’ve chosen sleep. She could’ve tailored her sleeping schedule and made sure that she was looking after herself well, but as she saw herself in the mirror being casually but tastefully dressed for a dinner for two, she prayed that she would be able to stick through with her self-imposed (and the doctor’s, for that matter) regime.

But most of it is self-imposed, and her doctor would be shocked to know what she’s even doing.

She checked her phone again, but again, there’s no Carlos striking up a conversation whatsoever. Not even on read again; Banica knew that Carlos wasn’t one to initiate conversations whenever they fought over something, and that trait seemed to stick. It was usually Banica bringing up a subject most of the time, and then the fight would resolve from there.

Not this time around though. She’s had enough being the one putting in most of the effort in their already failing relationship.

 _I didn’t want this to happen,_ Banica thought. She thought she would be happy. And they all wished them their best, and ever since Banica was young, she believed that she would be happy with him.

_CLICK!_

That’s all it took for Banica to whirl around and instinctively offer a practiced photogenic smile, along with a light wave of her hand. Another _CLICK!_ later, it occurred to her that she just placed herself in an awkward situation right at the middle of the hotel’s lobby.

“One more, one more please!” said the photographer as she held up her DSLR camera to take one last shot. All of Banica’s prior grace was instantly sapped away from her entire body, but she attempted to recreate what she just did a few seconds before for the teal-haired youngster.

_CLICK!_

“And thank you!” the photographer said cheerfully, looking surprisingly star-struck. She had her teal hair tied up in twintails, looking a lot like Platonic when she was younger, except for the fact that Camera Girl seemed to be a journalism nut. The brown newsboy’s cap on her head and her inquisitive expression said it all – she was a part of the press.

But…..plaid and suspenders! That’s really old style!

“I’m sorry, but you looked so much like Mayor Abelard just now!” the photographer hyped, leaving absolutely no room for Banica to cut in. “Or Princess Zita Germaine. They look similar, don’t they? Do you want a copy, ma’am? I promise on my journalist’s creed that personal pictures won’t circulate at all!”

 _Just now?_ Banica felt herself sweat a bit at the journalist’s comparisons.

“I’ll give you my email,” Banica smiled. She extended a hand, and the journalist eagerly took out several phones before giving a white one to Banica. “It’s in your notes app,” she said, passing it back.

“Oh, that’s great!” the journalist excitedly said. “The shots are highly professional, trust me, ma’am. And, and…..”

If her phones weren’t enough, she took out a stack of business cards from her pocket too before passing one to Banica.

“I’m Miku Hatsune, a journalist at _The Associated Press,”_ Miku Hatsune introduced herself, teal eyes brimming with confidence. “I don’t usually do celebrity scoops, but you just caught my eye!”

“Well, Miku,” Banica said, the smile still tugging at the ends of her lips, “what scoops do you usually chase after?”

“I’m here,” Miku said grandly, “to answer the challenges of the Phantom Thief F!”

The Phantom Thief what.

“…..You lost me there, Miku,” Banica managed bluntly.

“If you have time, ma’am,” Miku carried on, making a beeline for the hotel’s coffeehouse for the dinner buffet, “I’ll tell you everything about this phantom thief. I’ve been tracking them for two years now since I’ve started working with the newspaper, and I know that I’m getting closer to exposing their perfect crimes! And— aren’t you the doctor, Luka Megurine?”

Miku apparently saw Thelma walking towards them from where she stood asking questions at the concierge, and it seemed that the young journalist has once again mistook someone for another. A look to Banica, then at Miku, Thelma looked as lost as Banica was.

“…..Sorry?” was all Thelma could say.

“Oh, you don’t look like her. Sorry,” Miku said dismissively. “I think it’s the hair. Dr. Megurine looks more…..dead.”

The two older women exchanged looks, not knowing how to handle the situation that was Miku.

“Thank…..you?” Thelma slowly said.

“Are the two of you eating dinner together?” Miku asked, firing shots of deduction straight at them that they end up nearly stumbling trying to catch up with her train of thought. “Can I join? I’m staying here for one night because the S.S. Fantastic’s docking nearby, and the exhibition for the Diamond of Happiness will be tomorrow at 7, so I don’t want to be late. The newspaper’s paying, so….hey! Hey, you’re the mechanic, right?”

Just like that, Miku ran straight for a silver-haired girl wearing a white sleeveless shirt and baggy, multi-pocketed pants, and both Thelma and Banica tried to recover from the teal-haired whirlwind. Miku was animated in talking to the girl, who in return just gave her a very confused…..and then irritated expression.

“You’re staying here too? Can you tell me more about the ship in detail?”

The mechanic rolled her eyes.

 _“Me?_ Stay _here?_ I can only afford budget backpacker.”

Banica was effectively in a tizzy. She didn’t have to worry about overeating after all, because after Miku’s appearance, all she did was drink several glasses of water, eat one helping of salad, three plates of sushi and a fruit platter dessert.

Miku on the other hand was chowing down on meats and cakes and ice cream and anything that had spring onions on it, and Thelma looked between the both of them as she stuck to her bread roll course as if it’s breakfast. The mechanic sat with them too at the four-seater table, looking very disgusted with how Miku mowed down her food like she was a bulldozer. They later learned that her name was Mayu.

“…..Not eating anymore?” Thelma asked Banica sympathetically. “I guess our plans for a table for two didn’t work out tonight.”

“I want a glass of wine so badly, but I can’t do that to myself,” Banica groaned quietly. “I’m sorry. I know it’s for the both of us, but…..”

“She’s a lively one,” Thelma smiled, sipping some chardonnay. “Miku,” she said, loud enough for Miku to hear, “you said there will be another diamond exhibit other than the one here by Lusha?”

“Yeah,” Miku nodded, looking very proud of her research. “The Diamond of Happiness will be auctioned in a banquet aboard the S.S. Fantastic, and the phantom thief sent me a personal note letting me know about their heist. It’s right here….”

On the table, Miku slapped a piece of paper that looked like it came from an expensive but yellowed journal, and the three others looked at what was written on it.

_My dear,  
I will pick it up this night._

_See you at the secret banquet,  
I will show you FANTASTIC drama_

Right at the middle of the four sentences was a crude drawing of a diamond’s outline.

“…..Is that a love letter?” Mayu asked disdainfully. _“Gross.”_

“It’s not!” Miku exclaimed hotly. “It’s the Phantom Thief F’s challenge!”

“Maybe the thief could be talking about the hotel’s exhibition,” Thelma worriedly murmured. “I need to tell Lusha about this so that nothing bad will happen tomorrow night….”

“The thief was specific,” Miku said. “They’re definitely going on board the S.S. Fantastic tomorrow night. So whatever jewel is here….I think it’ll be safe!”

To Banica though…..she’s had enough of diamonds.


	4. valentine's special

Back then, Carlos Marlon’s fiancée has a sweet tooth.

That’s why it’s so easy for him to think of something to give to her for the year’s Valentine’s Day, since he can always buy something from a store and have it wrapped up with a custom card. He’s been doing this since they first met when they were 15, and back then, his fiancée, Banica had the great physique of someone who could very well, and unfortunately was, shamed by the media. According to her, she didn’t mind, and there was a big buzz about her weight and how strong she was in the face of numerous haters and supporters, but all that mattered to her was food.

When she reached 20, she’s still eating, but she looks as if she’s just won The Biggest Loser.

“No, I haven’t been exercising!” she laughed in a Skype call to him at a hotel room in Beirut while she was holidaying a year back. “I’ve been traveling, so I think it’s all the walking and the running, catching trains and buses. Bad side, I haven’t caught enough sleep.”

“It’s still dangerous to travel alone,” he cautioned. “I have no idea how to celebrate Valentine’s with you this year with all the traveling.”

“That’s fine,” Banica said easily. “We can watch a movie together. You can stream what you like and I’ll stay up if the time differences are too bad.”

"Anything I'd like?"

"I can just pretend that you're with me," she smiled, her voice carrying through like static. "It's really easy, so you can try too."

That was their last Valentine’s before their marriage. Some things just don’t last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's been very long 😔
> 
> uni applications and working with my visa applications too sent me to this weird spiral that i just can't find the time to write, and i missed valentine's day so bad that i'm just taking out this half-assed chapter about how awful carlos's and banica's married life is
> 
> projecting because i just can't write, and because in the fic they _actually have an awful wedded life_


End file.
